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They Had Great Text by Katie Reese

“Hello? at home. drunk” said the text message I finally received at 9 p.m. I thought, What did I do wrong to turn this hopeful young relationship into late-night booty texts?

Through many protracted therapy sessions with my girlfriends, I realized I didn’t do anything wrong at all. The dysfunction was all on his side.

I met Brent when I fell out of escrow. He was my knight in shining armor, president of his own company. He walked on water and got me a loan in — no joke — 52 hours. I got my house ten minutes before the deadline. How would I ever repay this savior?

I went to sign the documents Friday afternoon at his ocean-view office in Newport Beach. Designer jeans, hip retro paisley shirt with the top button open, chain around his neck, blinding whitened teeth, baby-blue eyes. After the papers were signed I said that I needed to find a gas station, and he offered to take me to one. “I’ll meet you in the driveway,” he said in the elevator. “I have the black Porsche.”

At the gas station he asked me out, and I accepted. That’s when the text barrage started. “You know how to be a woman, and I like that.” “You are smart, young, and hot. What else is there to know?” “I wish I wasn’t leaving town tomorrow.”

He had to leave the next day for Colorado. He was selling his eight-million-dollar architectural-award-winning house he built in Tahoe. He called me morning, noon, and night. The phone sex was hot. “I think I finally hit the relationship jackpot,” I told my friends. “See, we told you it would get better after your divorce!” they said to me. God closes one door and opens another. I could start to believe in the universe again.

Brent couldn’t wait to see me after Aspen. He set me up in a penthouse executive suite at a high-end hotel in Newport so I could relax there after leaving work in Irvine. His plan was to come see me immediately upon landing.

As I sat on my ocean-view balcony sipping a $100 bottle of wine, I planned out my new life with Brent in Newport. I’d quit my corporate dead-end job, meet the other ladies who lunch, attend fancy dinners, drive a complementary-colored Porsche. I debated what would go best with his black one. I’d never again worry about paying back my school loan or buying a new set of tires. I was tired of working 11-hour days. I could do this.

The next day the seducing continued. He invited me to his house. Upon entering, the 180-degree view of Lido and Balboa Islands from his cliff above PCH had me enchanted. Luxury sheets that cost $800. That’s per sheet. I never knew sheets could feel like that. I woke up to an orange-pink morning sky overlooking the palm trees and yachts of Newport Harbor. Finally, something good had happened to me in this life. I needed to send God a thank-you note.

Then, it happened — without warning the tide turned and Brent became distant and cold. It was the ol’ bait and switch. Now that he had my attention he didn’t have to expend as much energy as he had in the beginning. Our relationship turned into texts. And sex. Mind-blowing hours of sex. That was it. My imagined life was getting distorted and melting away.

Not that I was complaining at the time. Brent’s corner office with ginormous windows facing the ocean was the perfect setting for Friday-night sex on his granite desk. Million-dollar figures floated by on Excel spreadsheets on his monitor as we spent hour after hour turning his office into what Kansas must look like after a tornado. Hey, a girl’s got needs.

Then he began to blow off date after date via text. “Lunch tomorrow. Come to my office.” I was constantly rearranging my schedule. “Rough day at office today. Lunch Monday?” He’d always let me down. “Very sorry we couldn’t play today. Dinner & dancing next Tuesday.”

I’ve read He’s Just Not That Into You. I’ve watched Sex and the City. I know the warning signs. Men move mountains to be with a girl they’re interested in. When he changed our Tuesday dinner date to Wednesday, the fourth blow-off, I should have known it was not going to get better.

On Wednesday the silence was deafening. I emailed, then called. At 4:53 p.m. came this text: “Been drinking since lunch with friend from Atlanta. You never told me if Wed or Thurs worked better.” I responded civilly, even flirtatiously. Brent, three sheets to the wind on a Wednesday afternoon like a frat boy, responded: “Been drinking since 1. Not a pretty sight.” Forget it, right?

But the tail end of drinking always involves booty calls. Especially for an ultra-rich 51-year-old good-looking guy with game in Newport. I got two booty calls after being stood up two nights in a row. “Just got home. Where are you?” Seriously?

Reflecting upon this fiasco of a relationship, I find that what I’m looking for is much more elusive than oodles of money. In fact, I theorize that having a lot of money is inversely proportional to that person’s lack of character. Prove me wrong. Wealth spoils people, warps their ethical compass. I smile and say good morning to the janitor at work every day. I doubt Brent would do that.

The texting continued long after I had lost interest in the game. “I will be much easier to deal with after my house sells 10/15.” I’m already gone, Brent. You had so much potential. Enjoy your checking account and your empty house.

Tell us the story of your breakup and/or date from hell and we will publish it and pay you ($100 for 500-2000 words).

E-mail story to
[email protected]
Or mail to:
San Diego Reader/Dumped
Box 85803
San Diego, CA 92186

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“Hello? at home. drunk” said the text message I finally received at 9 p.m. I thought, What did I do wrong to turn this hopeful young relationship into late-night booty texts?

Through many protracted therapy sessions with my girlfriends, I realized I didn’t do anything wrong at all. The dysfunction was all on his side.

I met Brent when I fell out of escrow. He was my knight in shining armor, president of his own company. He walked on water and got me a loan in — no joke — 52 hours. I got my house ten minutes before the deadline. How would I ever repay this savior?

I went to sign the documents Friday afternoon at his ocean-view office in Newport Beach. Designer jeans, hip retro paisley shirt with the top button open, chain around his neck, blinding whitened teeth, baby-blue eyes. After the papers were signed I said that I needed to find a gas station, and he offered to take me to one. “I’ll meet you in the driveway,” he said in the elevator. “I have the black Porsche.”

At the gas station he asked me out, and I accepted. That’s when the text barrage started. “You know how to be a woman, and I like that.” “You are smart, young, and hot. What else is there to know?” “I wish I wasn’t leaving town tomorrow.”

He had to leave the next day for Colorado. He was selling his eight-million-dollar architectural-award-winning house he built in Tahoe. He called me morning, noon, and night. The phone sex was hot. “I think I finally hit the relationship jackpot,” I told my friends. “See, we told you it would get better after your divorce!” they said to me. God closes one door and opens another. I could start to believe in the universe again.

Brent couldn’t wait to see me after Aspen. He set me up in a penthouse executive suite at a high-end hotel in Newport so I could relax there after leaving work in Irvine. His plan was to come see me immediately upon landing.

As I sat on my ocean-view balcony sipping a $100 bottle of wine, I planned out my new life with Brent in Newport. I’d quit my corporate dead-end job, meet the other ladies who lunch, attend fancy dinners, drive a complementary-colored Porsche. I debated what would go best with his black one. I’d never again worry about paying back my school loan or buying a new set of tires. I was tired of working 11-hour days. I could do this.

The next day the seducing continued. He invited me to his house. Upon entering, the 180-degree view of Lido and Balboa Islands from his cliff above PCH had me enchanted. Luxury sheets that cost $800. That’s per sheet. I never knew sheets could feel like that. I woke up to an orange-pink morning sky overlooking the palm trees and yachts of Newport Harbor. Finally, something good had happened to me in this life. I needed to send God a thank-you note.

Then, it happened — without warning the tide turned and Brent became distant and cold. It was the ol’ bait and switch. Now that he had my attention he didn’t have to expend as much energy as he had in the beginning. Our relationship turned into texts. And sex. Mind-blowing hours of sex. That was it. My imagined life was getting distorted and melting away.

Not that I was complaining at the time. Brent’s corner office with ginormous windows facing the ocean was the perfect setting for Friday-night sex on his granite desk. Million-dollar figures floated by on Excel spreadsheets on his monitor as we spent hour after hour turning his office into what Kansas must look like after a tornado. Hey, a girl’s got needs.

Then he began to blow off date after date via text. “Lunch tomorrow. Come to my office.” I was constantly rearranging my schedule. “Rough day at office today. Lunch Monday?” He’d always let me down. “Very sorry we couldn’t play today. Dinner & dancing next Tuesday.”

I’ve read He’s Just Not That Into You. I’ve watched Sex and the City. I know the warning signs. Men move mountains to be with a girl they’re interested in. When he changed our Tuesday dinner date to Wednesday, the fourth blow-off, I should have known it was not going to get better.

On Wednesday the silence was deafening. I emailed, then called. At 4:53 p.m. came this text: “Been drinking since lunch with friend from Atlanta. You never told me if Wed or Thurs worked better.” I responded civilly, even flirtatiously. Brent, three sheets to the wind on a Wednesday afternoon like a frat boy, responded: “Been drinking since 1. Not a pretty sight.” Forget it, right?

But the tail end of drinking always involves booty calls. Especially for an ultra-rich 51-year-old good-looking guy with game in Newport. I got two booty calls after being stood up two nights in a row. “Just got home. Where are you?” Seriously?

Reflecting upon this fiasco of a relationship, I find that what I’m looking for is much more elusive than oodles of money. In fact, I theorize that having a lot of money is inversely proportional to that person’s lack of character. Prove me wrong. Wealth spoils people, warps their ethical compass. I smile and say good morning to the janitor at work every day. I doubt Brent would do that.

The texting continued long after I had lost interest in the game. “I will be much easier to deal with after my house sells 10/15.” I’m already gone, Brent. You had so much potential. Enjoy your checking account and your empty house.

Tell us the story of your breakup and/or date from hell and we will publish it and pay you ($100 for 500-2000 words).

E-mail story to
[email protected]
Or mail to:
San Diego Reader/Dumped
Box 85803
San Diego, CA 92186

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Comments
22

Golddigger...that's what you get...

Nov. 5, 2008

Fumbler - do the initials FO mean anything to you?

Nov. 5, 2008

Oh, please. And this "mortgage broker", ie Satan's Elf, is any better? I was an escrow officer. I worked with these skid marks for years. Talk about f***ing people for money.

Nov. 5, 2008

Sounds like you got what you had coming. I wonder if you would've given this guy "any" if he didn't have the bling...

Nov. 6, 2008

Why would she have? Does she have to sleep with losers to be okay in your world? There is no equal opportunity when it comes to who you pick as your sexual partner. You don't try out the guys with nothing as well as the successful ones to appease bitter, sexist men. But if she did, then you could call her a slut, as well.

Nov. 6, 2008

LOL! tx5150 - Of course I wouldn't have given him any if he didn't have the money! LOL!!! Honey, re-read it. He's old & alone in an empty house. Don't be so bitter that I took control & took advantage of the situation & the sex. Something was missing in him. Like substance. Joke's on him. MsGrant, you're right, why waste your time with the ones who are losers in both relationships AND finances? What's the point? Not only can they not satisfy you in bed, but they can't spring for dinner either! Too funny... ;)

Nov. 6, 2008

“The dysfunction was all on his side”? Not once do you say that he was funny or interesting or kind or smart. You didn’t know him. You liked the money; he liked the booty. How did you think it would turn out?

Miss Reese in her comment would like us to believe that she had it all figured out the whole time, but it doesn’t sound like that in the article.

It sounds like she fell in love with the money and naïvely hoped a good-enough guy would accompany it.

Nov. 8, 2008

In her comment she practically admits to being a wh*re. eww.

Nov. 8, 2008

Hey, I am sensing a trend here with your comments, magicsfive. Get laid much, Megadeath fan weirdo? Or are you too busy sitting around in your Spider Man UnderRoos and "hunting the abyss lord"? It must be sad for you. But it does explain why you hate girls.

Nov. 12, 2008

What she fails to realize, or want to admit, is that along with her, he had 2-3 other women he was romancing and doing on the desk. He wasn't getting drunk in the afternoon with an old friend, he was in bed with another woman; and other women is why he kept changing dates. This is an M.O. I know well -- well, in other times of my life, not now, but this is what we guys do when jumbling several booty calls at the same time -- he didn't "lose interest," per se, there were other lands to conquer...does any army deal with captured territory when there is new real estate to quell and tame?

Nov. 12, 2008

Heh. That is the absolute truth. There are plenty of women who do the same as well. I am not one of those types but, I know of a few women that "play golf" on other fairways as well. Noone's alone here, we are all adults and we know exactly how the game is played. We may not know that teams' exact play. But basicallly bottom line is we all know the basics on how the game is played. Some haven't hung up their jerseys and retired, some sit out a few games, and others are heavy hitters...

Nov. 12, 2008

Oh, an another thing, I am an educated medical professional...well I'm a nurse, that counts, right? And I am just as entitled to my opinion as you are to yours. So no, I do not have the time to sit around in my underoos (wtf?), hunting the abyss lord lol lol...good one, though. Did you research that? or do you actually own Rust in Peace? If so, kudos to you. Great album.

Nov. 12, 2008

Hahahaha MsGrant...I AM a girl....and I get laid plenty- but for the right reasons. I'm not the one sitting here saying I f*** for the money, honey. Quit hatin, baby. Sounds like you know megadeth as much as I do......and it's not Megadeth fan weirdo, it's Megadethfreak to you. Rock on xoxo.

Nov. 12, 2008

Lol...nice...xoxo

Nov. 13, 2008

Fumber...I have enough booty calls to deal with already, my inbox is full, and I've turned off the phone...they all want Fred Wiliams the Humongous to satisfy them...I'm dehydrated and need some sleep.

So, fumber, please don't tell any more of these horny women about how hugely I'm endowed. I can only do it so many times in one day, and my lower back is killing me.

And for all you women out there, dammit, I'm tired of being treated as a sex object. I have a brain too, you know, and I deserve some respect.

Sure, it's wonderful to be wined and dined and have you transfer all your worldly possessions to me just because of the way I make your toes curl, but it's beginning to get in the way of my modeling career.

Thank you for all the booty calls...I'm deeply appreciative, but really I do need a little rest to recover.

Best,

Fred "Humongous" Williams

Nov. 13, 2008

Oh, so THAT'S what "Humongous" refers to.... Why didn't you tell us, Fumbler?

Nov. 13, 2008

Yeah!! I told you this bird couldn't fly right the day after the election night at Golden Hall!!! Mwa ha ha ha ha..... :)

Nov. 13, 2008

On the flip side, with regards to "Our relationship turned into texts. And sex. Mind-blowing hours of sex," Even though I currently make less than $800/month (ouch) I'd be willing to skip risking the agony of Blackberry Thumb, and get straight to the mind-blowing hours of sex part....

Jan. 30, 2009

Here are the 2 things you did wrong:

  1. Phone sex before getting to know him or having a single date or establishing any type of relationship;

  2. Sex on the first date and every date thereafter.

Should be no mystery to you why the relationship was primarily sexual. YOU set it up that way from the beginning. If you wanted a genuine relationship with the guy then take the time to get to know him and he you, be a lady, make him treat you with respect. Don't spread your legs right off the bat then wonder why he reduces you to a booty call. C'mon girl, you're smarter than that. "Girl's got her needs" you say... well, you got them met. So what are you complaining about?

April 8, 2009

well said, lallaw... xo

April 8, 2009

why thank you, "magicsfive." No booty call here, just mutual appreciation. xo right back at you. L

April 9, 2009

The fact he told you he was going to Colorado to sell a house in Tahoe (which is CA and NV) should have been a tip off.

May 21, 2009

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